Jump!

by Jilly Cooper

  Outside, Phoebe met Major Cunliffe, who was writing down the number of a silver Mercedes parked on the grass. Replacing the Major’s glass with a full one and popping a cauliflower floret into his mouth, she murmured, ‘I’m having such trouble with the gas board, Normie, could you bear to sort out the bill for me?’

  ‘You could start by paying it,’ murmured a hovering Alan.

  *

  Checking she was unobserved, Debbie Cunliffe pulled up a clump of Corydalis ochroleuca, when in flower a lovely off-white instead of the common yellow, and nicked a root of the Japanese saxifrage Fortune. Ione had even printed the Japanese name on its discreet black label. Silly old show-off. Debbie jumped out of her skin at a frantic jangling as Martin roguishly clinked a Sampson Bancroft Fund collecting box against a Compost Club tin thrust out by Phoebe.

  ‘Cheers,’ laughed Martin.

  Next moment, a large speckled hound with a rakish brown patch over one eye had detached himself from the pack and rushed over to a newly arrived Old Mrs Malmesbury. Whimpering with joy, tail whacking back and forth, he put both paws on her shoulders, nearly sending her flying.

  ‘Hello, Oxford,’ she bellowed, ‘how are you? Walked him and his sister three years ago,’ she told a grinning Alan and Alban, ‘never forgotten me. Damn nuisance when he was a pup, dug holes in the lawn, dug up my bulbs, chewed up every shoe and boot in the house, took my beloved dachs off hunting for days, had to lock him in the stable. Nice dog.’ She patted Oxford affectionately before reaching out for a glass of sloe gin. ‘But I’m not walking any more puppies.’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Bancroft could take on a couple,’ said Dora. ‘She misses her dog Bartlett dreadfully.’

  ‘I think Etta’s got her hands full enough with Mrs Wilkinson and that pestilential goat,’ boomed Charlie Radcliffe, cigar in one hand, glass of port in the other, as he bucketed up on a big blue roan with thick furry ankles. ‘How’s my little patient. Looks splendid,’ he added, then as Mrs Wilkinson turned whickering towards him, ‘She’s such a sweet horse.’

  ‘She is,’ agreed Dora. ‘I still think Etta would enjoy walking puppies.’

  ‘Do better with a little dachs,’ boomed Mrs Malmesbury. ‘Hounds don’t make good pets, they need to work.’

  ‘So do I,’ sighed Alan, ‘or I’ll never finish Depression. But who could work on such a lovely day? What d’you fancy in the three thirty, Alban?’

  ‘Ilkley Hall, normally, but Marius is so not in form.’

  ‘Rupert Campbell-Black’s Lusty’ll win,’ said Joey.

  32

  So many people had come up and patted Mrs Wilkinson, she’d stopped yelling her head off. The crowd were also excited to see Olivia Oakridge on Etta’s favourite, Stop Preston.

  ‘He’s lost his taste for jumping after a nasty fall, thought a day out might cheer him up,’ Olivia was telling Charlie Radcliffe.

  Chatter stopped completely as Harvey-Holden arrived on a spectacular bay gelding who glowed like a new conker. Always after a story, Dora edged up and overheard him telling Olivia that his yard was nearly rebuilt after the fire and filling up with horses.

  ‘That one’s seriously nice,’ said Olivia.

  ‘Very seriously,’ said Harvey-Holden. ‘Called Bafford Playboy. Bought him in Ireland. He’s for sale, at a price.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ he added bitchily as Niall the vicar strolled up the drive, ‘here comes Goldilocks. God, he was a pest when the yard burnt down, kept rolling up to counsel me and drink all my drink.’

  Niall had been ordered by Ione to bless the hunt, but without her here everyone had forgotten, so he got stuck into the sloe gin and sausages instead, and blessed Not for Crowe, his hand itching to stroke Woody’s long muscular thigh at the same time.

  Not for Crowe nibbled the vicar’s prayer book.

  Niall had competition when Shagger charged up, scattering foot followers on a huge, dark brown cob which was clearly unnerved by Shagger’s loud, harsh voice and which he was having great difficulty controlling. Despite being a dreadful rider, Shagger was wearing a red coat, for the privilege of which he’d paid the hunt a large sum. He also sported a top hat on the back of his head, so his straight black forelock fell over his face.

  ‘Needs a kirby grip,’ observed Miss Painswick beadily.

  ‘Can’t raise his hat, needs both hands to cling on,’ said Dora.

  ‘Where’s Marius?’ Harvey-Holden asked Olivia.

  ‘Towcester.’ Olivia straightened one of Preston’s plaits, adding that Marius didn’t want to get shouted at by Lady Crowe, the Master, who was one of his owners.

  ‘He hasn’t given her a winner for two years. She’s been bloody loyal.’ Olivia shook her head when plum cake was offered. ‘Sentimental attachment to Marius’s father, I suppose. Did you know Lady C was his mistress?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Hard to believe today, but they used to tie up their horses all over Larkshire and disappear into the bushes. Charlie Radcliffe swears they didn’t miss a beat when hounds ran right over them one day … Ah, here she is.’

  Both gold hands of the church clock edged towards eleven as Nancy Crowe, the Master, arrived. A long-term friend of the Travis-Locks, she had a beaky nose, a line of crimson lipstick instead of a mouth, yellowing skin like a wizened apple, and cropped, dyed black hair. Far more heterosexual than her masculine appearance suggested, she had run the hunt for twenty years. Her horse Terence looked older than her, but would last until she retired. Her voice was as loud and rasping as her name.

  ‘High time you were mounted,’ she yelled at Alban, as she tossed back a glass of port.

  ‘Is Spencer out?’ asked Alban, lighting her cigar.

  ‘Given up. Seventy-eight now, had to get off and widdle eighty times last time we were out.’

  ‘That’s the Lady Crowe,’ whispered Woody to Dora, ‘who turned down Crowie.’

  Ears sloping like a basset, eyes closed like an old crocodile, still plump from summer grass, his skimpy tail nearly chewed off by the cows with whom he’d summered, Not for Crowe could never be described as a picture, even less so when he hoovered up Ione’s courgette and walnut tart and curled his lip back.

  ‘She rejected Crowie?’ raged Dora. ‘She’ll eat her words, the stupid bitch.’

  A group of hunt saboteurs who’d crept in via the churchyard were of the same mind. As Lady Crowe approached them, their tattooed and dreadlocked leader shouted out, ‘You fucking bitch.’

  ‘You are entitled to call me the latter,’ shouted back Lady Crowe, ‘but I haven’t indulged in the former activity for twenty years.’

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  ‘Don’t you insult our master, you cheeky bugger,’ yelled Charlie Radcliffe as he thundered towards the saboteurs on his mighty blue roan.

  ‘Look out, Brunhilda,’ yelled the dreadlocked leader to a big girl in black.

  Dora turned green. Brunhilda had been the leader on the goat raid. That night Dora’s face had been hidden by a balaclava, but today’s leader was now videoing the hunt. What would they think? Goat saviour one day, fox murderer the next. Dora and Mrs Wilkinson retreated behind a yew hedge.

  Creeping out five minutes later, Dora retreated again as a smart silver car drove up and out jumped her eldest brother, Jupiter, who was not only MP for Larkminster and head of the New Reform Party but also a governor of Bagley Hall, who didn’t approve of bunking off. Jupiter proceeded to announce, to loud cheers, that the New Reform Party would repeal the ban on hunting once they came to power, and shot back into his car again.

  ‘It’s going to be Crowie’s year,’ a returning Dora comforted Woody. ‘If Marius is doing that badly, he’ll really drop his prices and you’ll be able to afford to send Doggie and Crowie to him.’

  Woody admired the curves of Ione’s limes. He’d done a good job there.

  As she surreptitiously snipped off another of Ione’s roses and slipped it into her bag, Debbie called out disapprovingly, ‘My goodness, here’s Tilda Flood. Amazing how many p
eople have taken the day off.’

  Tilda had got into the habit of taking her class on much enjoyed nature rambles. It had seemed a fun idea to bring them to see the hunt. With shrieks of joy, the children gathered round Mrs Wilkinson, whose picture was on their noticeboard. Soon she was shaking hooves with them.

  Tilda meanwhile was looking round, desperate to catch a mid-week glimpse of Shagger in his red-coated glory.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Bancroft?’ asked the children in disappointment.

  ‘Looking after Chisolm and Cadbury,’ said Dora.

  Not all factions were so benign. Re-entering the garden, the saboteurs crept up on Tilda, berating her for encouraging blood sports in the young.

  ‘You ought to be struck off, you buck-toothed cow.’

  Tilda went crimson. Where was Shagger in her hour of need?

  ‘Don’t be rude to my teacher,’ shouted little India Oakridge furiously. ‘Hounds kill foxes in seconds. If they’re shot, trapped or poisoned they spend days dying in agony. Foxes are murderers anyway.’

  ‘You little pervert,’ yelled Brunhilda, ‘who brainwashed you?’

  ‘At least her brain’s washed,’ shouted Alan. ‘You lot don’t look as though you’ve touched a bar of soap in days.’

  As the crowd bellowed with laughter again, Tilda mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Alan.

  Time to move off. Toby had laid his bloody trail through the faded bracken over a splendid array of hedges and walls.

  ‘Good morning and welcome, ladies and gentlemen,’ shouted Lady Crowe to a counterpoint of excited yelping and barking.

  ‘I’m delighted to see so many of you here, supporting the hunt, spending precious petrol on such long distances. I’d like to thank Alban and Ione for their splendid hospitality and beautiful garden.’

  A photographer from the Larkminster Echo was snapping away. Having taken a nice shot of Lady Crowe, he turned his attention to the group of admirers around Mrs Wilkinson and Not for Crowe. Anxious to get in the picture, Debbie shoved her bulk between the two horses, whereupon the eternally greedy Not for Crowe, mistaking her jute sack for a nosebag, delved inside, drawing out a rainbow riot of cuttings, including several Hermione Harefields.

  ‘Stop it, you brute,’ squawked Debbie, whacking Not for Crowe on his ginger nose with her scarlet fold-up umbrella and frantically shoving cuttings back into the bag.

  ‘Don’t hit Crowie or I’ll report you to the RSPCA, you great bully,’ shouted Dora.

  Oblivious to the uproar, Lady Crowe wished everyone a good day. Then, with a triumphant blast on the horn, she cried out, ‘And I would like to reaffirm that the West Larks will continue to hunt within the law.’

  ‘Unlike Mrs Cunliffe,’ raged Pocock, furiously eyeballing Debbie.

  ‘Don’t make a fuss, Mr Pocock,’ whispered Painswick. ‘It’s Mrs Wilkinson’s day. Good luck, Dora,’ she cried.

  ‘Good luck, Mrs Wilkinson,’ chorused the children. ‘You won’t hit her with that whip, will you?’

  ‘No, that’s to open gates,’ explained Dora, who was in her element. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ she cried graciously and, leaping on to Mrs Wilkinson, clattered off down the drive to much clapping and cheering.

  ‘Don’t know that mare, looks well,’ called out Lady Crowe.

  ‘Thank you, Master. I’m qualifying her for the point-to-point.’

  ‘Going to ride her?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ said Dora proudly.

  ‘She yours?’

  ‘No, she belongs to Etta Bancroft.’

  ‘So this is the famous Mrs Wilkinson?’

  Dora nearly burst with pride. Off they went with a manic jangle and rattle of hooves, fifty riders, pursued through the village by a convoy of cars and motorbikes.

  Held up by traffic, Dora, realizing she’d tipped her saddle too far forward, dismounted and undid Mrs Wilkinson’s girths to adjust it. Just at that moment, Harvey-Holden trotted past on his spectacular new horse and Mrs Malmesbury, who was parked just ahead and gave way to no one, remembered she’d forgotten to pick up the Telegraph from the village shop. Without a glance in her rear mirror, she backed straight into Mrs Wilkinson.

  ‘You fucking stupid old bag,’ howled Harvey-Holden. Next moment, Mrs Wilkinson had swung round and bolted down the hill, not stopping until she reached Little Hollow, leaving behind Dora holding the saddle and screaming expletives.

  Etta had spent an utterly miserable morning. The thick white cobwebs woven into the conifer hedge reminded her of Bartlett’s moulting fur. To comfort a lonely and agitated Chisolm, she’d let her out of her box, whereupon Chisolm had taken off down the road and joined a convoy of ramblers.

  Etta had just grabbed her car keys and was setting off to retrieve her when she heard a rattle of hooves and met Mrs Wilkinson at the gate, reins flapping, saddle and Dora missing. She was in a dreadful state, eyes rolling, shuddering in terror. Etta was just trying to calm her when Dora rolled up, raging with humiliation.

  ‘Bloody Wilkie, making me look such an idiot, bloody Mrs Malmesbury. I’ve got to take her back.’ She was about to slap on the saddle.

  ‘You will not,’ said Etta firmly. ‘Something terrified the life out of her. Chisolm’s pushed off, I was just going to look for her.’

  ‘Chisolm will come back, she’s got a disc,’ said Dora sulkily. ‘I can’t give in to Wilkie.’

  ‘You damn well can. What happened?’

  ‘Well, we know she’s spooked by shovels and cars backing into her,’ said Etta, when Dora had cooled down and finished telling her the story. ‘I wonder if that’s how she got those terrible scars on her legs. I’d better go and find Chisolm, I’ve got to pick up Poppy at one.’

  *

  Miss Painswick ended up in the Fox with Alan, Alban and Pocock, enjoying Chrissie’s moussaka and having a good laugh over Debbie’s plant raid.

  ‘Very cutting edge,’ quipped Alan.

  It was such a lovely day, Miss Painswick had left her sitting-room window open. On her return, she thought she was hallucinating when she saw Chisolm stretched out asleep on her newly upholstered pale blue sofa under a half-eaten copy of The Times.

  ‘Chisolm is a distinct addition to our little circle,’ announced Painswick as she handed her back to Etta. ‘At least she left me the social and television pages. How about scrambled eggs and The Bill this evening?’

  33

  Gradually Mrs Wilkinson grew in confidence and, despite having only one eye, gave Dora some wonderful days out. Working without realizing it, the little mare was learning her trade, discovering how to take the shortest route and to jump all kinds of fences at the gallop. She was loving every minute of it, mixing with other horses, dogs and humans and finding it both steadying and exciting.

  To qualify for a point-to-point, she had to hunt six times. On the sixth occasion Dora caught flu, so a heroic Alban Travis-Lock took out Mrs Wilkinson instead. With a flask of brandy in every pocket to steel his nerves, he could hardly shrug into his riding coat. Long legs nearly meeting under Mrs Wilkinson’s belly enabled him to cling on.

  Cheered on by Alan, who joined the foot followers, Alban gave Mrs Wilkinson her head and had a marvellous afternoon.

  ‘He ended up absolutely rat-arsed,’ Alan told Etta later, ‘sobbing, “Thank you for giving me back my nerve,” into Mrs Wilkinson’s shoulder. Must be tough living with Ione, she hasn’t forgiven him for knocking over her wormery the day hounds met at the Hall. Wilkie must be incredibly strong to carry him all day.’

  The West Larks point-to-point – to be held on 21 March, the first day of spring, was drawing near. Who would ride Mrs Wilkinson? Dora longed to. She had enraged Farmer Fred and the secretary of the golf club galloping all over their land. She had spent ages teaching Mrs Wilkinson to jump. She was the perfect weight for a jockey, but only sixteen and totally inexperienced. In addition, Paris, who loved her, considered it far too dangerous.

  Visiting her friend Bianca Campbell-Black, Dora sought the advice of B
ianca’s father Rupert, who was watching racing all over the world on half a dozen monitors and gazing gloomily at a laptop. Despite having daughters who were brilliant event riders and polo players, Rupert thoroughly disapproved of women jockeys.

  ‘Paris is right. And National Hunt’s far more dangerous than flat. It’s like going off to the Front. Need to be half-mad to do it. Jump jockeys average a fall every thirteen rides – not the place for a girl. They’re not strong enough to hold horses up.’

  As Dora’s face fell, Rupert suggested she try his god-daughter, Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who had ambitions to become a jump jockey. Rupert felt guilty because he’d refused to give her any rides.

  Then, seeing Dora was still despondent, Rupert confided that he was having trouble writing his incredibly opinionated and inflammatory column in the Racing Post. If he told her what to say, would she be able to ghost it for him occasionally?

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Dora, perking up, ‘as long as we can split the fee and write nice things about Mrs Wilkinson.’

  Dora had had a terrific pash on Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who when she was at Bagley Hall had exeats to hunt with the Beaufort, and received more letters from boys than anyone else. She was also a heroine, having broken into Parliament with Otis Ferry and scuffled with politicians over the hunting ban.

  Amber, like her journalist mother, Janey, liked the fleshpots, and had consequently abandoned eventing as not commercially viable. Despite her famous father, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, who was an Olympic medallist, a BBC equine correspondent and a star on A Question of Sport, Amber was finding it hard to get rides, due to other trainers’ prejudice against women jockeys – although they were quick enough to offer her rides of a different kind.

  Egged on by Painswick, who reasoned that if Amber rode in the point-to-point Amber’s ex-headmaster Hengist Brett-Taylor might turn up to cheer her on, Dora wrote to Amber offering her £100 to ride Mrs Wilkinson, ‘a fantastic novice mare’.